


In the summer silence (I was getting violent)

by sleeplessflower



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Deepthroating, Dubious Consent, Fear Play, Gun Kink, Gun Violence, Light Dom/sub, M/M, PWP, Prostitution, S2E1: Blood Pressure, Season/Series 02, Smut, Violence, dont worry its filled with blanks, i guess ?, kind of, peter deepthroats a gun, uhhng
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-29 19:30:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12091851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeplessflower/pseuds/sleeplessflower
Summary: Peter stills, his eyes going wide. Roman tries his hardest not hit Peter with the gun. His fist tightens in Peter’s hair. He grits his teeth. He takes a breath and forces his mouth into a smile.  Roman continues, placing the cold barrel of the gun onto Peter’s tongue.“Suck it.”Peter’s expression changes, and he mumbles something around the gun that sounds like ‘what?’ and Roman tugs on Peter’s hair in response.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> heerreee i am again w some almost-smut  
> maybe i will write chapter two? who knows.   
> titles is from mama's gun by glass animals  
> anyway warnings for some dubious consent, since peter doesnt verbally consent and all.  
> anyway i when peter asked fr money from roman in ep 1 of season 2 my brain was like 'aha its cool he said fuck off or whaever but wouldnt it be cool is roman took out his frustrations on peter instead?" and as soon as i was saying yea my brain was like "and peter gets a boner or somethig nahah" and i was like yeah that sounds good

Peter looks down, trying not to meet Roman’s eyes.  
“Look, I know things were bad when I split.”

“Fuck you.” Roman’s standing at the top of the stairs, face unchanged.

“Hear me out-” Peter tries to start.

“Not interested.”

“Please-” Peter tries again.

“We’re done.” It slices through Peter’s heart like a knife. Roman seems intent on cutting him off.

“Lynda’s in jail.” Peter Steps forward, finally meeting Roman’s eyes. They’re cold. “I need your help.”

“No.” nothing changes in his expression.

“Be mad at me, but this is Lynda we’re talking about.” Peter tries to reason. Lynda was always nice to him, always hospitable, even though he was an Upir.

Roman tuts. “Sounds like she fucked up. Not my problem.”

“She was always good to you. She’s not gonna make it in there.” Peter’s voice wavers a touch.

“What do you want me to do about it?” it hardly comes across as a question.

Peter pauses, his eyes drifting downward again. He takes his time in speaking next. “I need money. To hire a lawyer.”

Roman rolls his jaw. His eyes light with something vicious. How _dare_ Peter come do his door, how _dare_ he have the audacity to come in here and ask for money, after how he left. He should be on his hands and knees like a fucking dog.“So you came here to beg.”

“Can you please pay me twenty-thousand dollars, I’ll pay you back.” Peter wrenches the words out.

“I always liked your mother. She baked cookies. My mother never baked cookies.” he pauses. “I can’t give you the dough. I’m not gonna do that. I’m not giving you shit.”

“Maybe you forgot I saved your life.” Peter throws back.

“Shelley saved yours.” Roman tears up, and Peter can catch the wetness of his eyes.

“And I think about her all the time. She might still be out there-” Peter motions outside, before he’s cut off.

“She died alone. How Letha died.” He begins down the steps. “And when I needed you, you tucked your dick between your legs like the little bitch you are.” Wiping his face, Roman motions to the door. “Get out of my house.”

“Please.” Peter won’t budge. “I’m - I’ll do anything.”

“I said-”

This time it’s Peter’s turn to cut Roman off. “I mean it Roman.” He pauses. “I need the money.”

Roman stops, rolling his tongue. He considers it. He thinks of everything he could do to Peter. Thinks of everything in his house. Of something he could do that could possibly be worth twenty-thousand dollars. His mind runs through everything. The knives in his kitchen, the forks, his can opener, his melon baller. The straight razor in his bathroom. The rope in this laundry, the bleach in the cupboards.

The gun in his dresser.

 

Yeah. That’d be fucking perfect. 

“Get on your knees.” Roman’s demand is quick, sure, voice monotone.

“I- are you saying you’ll--”

“I’ll give you the money.” Roman pauses. “If you do what I want, I’ll give you the money.”

“I get half now.” Peter looks Roman in the eyes again.

“Whatever.” Roman fishes his phone out of his pocket, opens up his banking app. His fingers hover over the section marked ‘transfer’. He closes it. “Get on your knees.”

“I need to the see that the money’s transferred.”

“Trust me.” Roman places a hand on his shoulder. “On your knees.”

“Roman..” Peter’s pushing it now. 

“I said.” Roman pushes Peter down with a rough shove. “On. Your. Knees.” Peter gasps, a small intake of breath, in protest. Roman smirks, lip twitching up. “Now your hands.”

“What?” Peter’s frowning.

“You have the audacity - “ Roman pauses to place his other hand on Peter’s shoulder. “ to come in here-” He spreads his fingers, smoothing over Peter’s ratty jacket, moving his hands further down Peter’s back. “On your fucking feet like you are more than a fucking dog.” He gives another rough shove, pushing  Peter onto his hands and knees. “You are _nothing_ more than a mutt, Rumancek.”

Peter hardly resists. He’s looking down, his shoulders tense, red tinging his ears, telling that there’s a flush over his whole face. Roman feels some kind of pleasure bloom in his chest at seeing Peter on the floor like a dog, embarrassment clear on his face. 

“Go upstairs.” Roman begins, getting out his phone again. “On all fours, go upstairs to the first room on the right. Wait inside.” He taps a few buttons. “You still have the same bank account?” he lifts his head up, only to see Peter’s response.

Peter nods slowly, his head still down.

“Okay. Once you get up there, half of the money will be transferred.” Roman takes Peter’s hair in his hand, tugging. Peter makes a strangled, quieted noise, and Roman chuckles. “Go. Now.” he watches as Peter crawls up the steps. He follows soon after, watching as Peter lifts up, opening the door and moving into Roman’s room. He crawls just inside before Roman raises a hand, motioning to stop, and closes the door.

 

Roman opens the top drawer of his dresser, fishing around among his socks and underwear. Peter is silent, his head tipping up when Roman crows quietly, closing the drawer of his dresser and turning around. Peter’s eyes widen when he sees the gun in Roman’s hand.

It’s black, sleek, obviously never used. Peter watches as Roman flicks the safety, checks the cartridge. Peter can feel his face heat, he can feel sweat beading on his face and at his joints -- his pits, the back of his knees.

“What are you g-going to-” Peter’s throat is tight, his eyes trained on the gun. 

“Did I say you could fucking talk?” Roman snaps, walking closer. He slips the cartridge from the gun and checks it again, making sure he’s got the right one. He tucks the gun into the back of his pants and gets as close to Peter as he can.

Peter’s looking down again, his messy hair blocking his face from Roman’s view. His face twists. His hair’s _disgusting_ , unbrushed and unwashed. Roman takes a fist of it and uses that to pull Peter’s head back.

Peter’s mouth opens when Roman pulls his hair back, choking on a sound he doesn’t want to let out. His eyes are rolled back, both in pain and so Roman is within his view. Roman takes a moment to look at Peter; on all fours, head pulled back, mouth open. His adam’s apple bobs lightly as he swallows. _God, what a whore._

“You look like a whore.” Roman says, no inflection. Peter doesn’t say anything, sweat glistening on his brow. Roman stills. He looks Peter in the eyes.

His free hand reaches back, fingers finding the gun and pulling it from his pants. He taps it against Peter’s cheek and Peter makes a strangled sound of fear.

“Shut it.” Roman brings the gun back a few inches, tapping it back onto Peter’s cheek. He quiets down. “I’m not going to shoot you.” He drags the gun across Peter’s cheek. “Not right away, anyway.” He drags the gun across Peter’s top lip. “I want to have some fun with you first.”

Peter stills, his eyes going wide. Roman tries his hardest not hit Peter with the gun. His fist tightens in Peter’s hair. He grits his teeth. He takes a breath and forces his mouth into a smile. _Just think of what you’re going to do._ Roman continues, placing the cold barrel of the gun onto Peter’s tongue.

“Suck it.”

Peter’s expression changes, and he mumbles something around the gun that sounds like ‘what?’ and Roman tugs on Peter’s hair in response.

“I know you’re not retarded, bitch.” He snaps. “You fucking know what I mean.”

Unsure of what else to do, Peter, pulls forward an inch, trying to get more of the gun into his mouth. Roman loosens his grip on Peter’s hair, allowing his to move his head further forward. Peter takes a moment, the barrel of the gun a little too wide, the shape a little too square. After a few minutes, he’s just getting used to the shape, trying to work up a good rhythm. Roman glares down at Peter, slowly easing more of the gun into his mouth. 

“What a fucking slut.” He comments, his voice still. “ ‘no friends’ my ass, Rumancek.” Roman watches the spit roll down Peter’s chin. “With talent like this, I bet you had plenty of friends.”

Peter hums, almost delightfully, and Roman’s gut twists with something primal. He shoves the gun down until he feels resistance, pounding it against the back of Peter’s throat. Peter chokes again and again, each time with an increasing gut-punch groan. At the same time, he pulls on Peter’s hair, short tugs along with the ramming of the gun. He repeats, waiting and watching until tears start rolling down Peter’s cheeks. The primal urge within Roman is sated. Almost.

 

_Do it._

Roman’s finger tightens on the trigger. He slams the gun into Peter’s throat one more time, and then fires.

Peter calls out, and Roman pulls the gun out of his mouth, releasing his hair. Peter immediately starts coughing, his arms shaking. Tears are still coming.

“Relax.” Roman can’t help the grin that unfurls. “They’re blanks, you pussy.”

Peter wipes his mouth and glances up. “Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt, asshole.”

Roman immediately swings back, smacking Peter in the face with the gun. When Peter is moved from the force, Roman grabs his hair. Pulls him onto his knees. _Who said you could talk?_

“Cunt.” Roman spits, slapping the gun against Peter’s face again. Peter groans, spitting out blood.

Roman is about to speak, about to snap at Peter about staining his carpet, but something else catches his eye and his words are washed away. He’s grinning again.

“You’re hard.” He states, and Peter shifts uncomfortably. There’s no denying. Roman laughs, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re getting off on this?”

Peter moves his mouth, as if to speak. He gets a single syllable out before Roman tugs his hair. A groan begins, ripping itself from his throat, but it’s closed off quickly. Roman looks just above Peter’s head, and then back down. He holds eye contact for a good minute, before his eyes flick down to the tent at Peter’s pants. Peter sweats. 

“That’s kind of fucking pathetic, Rumancek.” Roman comments, taking his hand from Peter’s hair. He gets a single moment of reprise before Roman is pushing him back, making sure Peter stays on the ground with his foot. Peter makes a strangled sound of surprise and gurgles around the blood in his mouth.

Roman kneels, putting his hand on Peter’s chest, pressing down. He runs his tongue over his teeth, considering.

He points the gun onto where he can see the swell of Peter’s dick, and presses down ,pulling the trigger.

Peter practically screams. Sure, it was a blank, but there was still pressure, still a firm push. Roman chuckles. 

“This is going to be fun.” He looks up at Peter, his flushed face, wet eyes. “I can tell.”

Taking a moment, Roman drags the gun along the fly of Peter’s pants, teasing, testing. He takes a breath and places the gun between Peter’s thighs, reaching down to undo Peter’s belt. Peter shifts as soon as Roman takes his hand off of his chest.

“I already payed you half, remember?” Roman says, and Peter stills. “If you want the rest, you won’t move.”

Peter doesn’t protest.

Roman continues, pulling the belt from Peter’s pants and moving onto his button and fly. He pulls his pants open, pulling his boxers down and tucking them under his balls. Peter’s dick stands, almost twitching in the cold air. Roman’s eyebrows perk up and he smiles. 

_Perfect._

 

“Stay here.” He commands, placing the gun onto Peter’s chest. Peter nods, and Roman gets up, striding out of the room.

Dashing down the steps, Roman rushes into his kitchen. He goes through the drawers, rummaging through and crowing in victory, pulling out a bag of rubber bands. He pushes the drawer closed with his hip and moves back upstairs.

Peter cranes his neck up, trying to see what Roman’s brought back. Roman sits down as quick as he got up, placing the bag next to himself, he rummages around in it, bringing out a fistful of rubber bands. Peter makes a small, questioning sound. Roman huffs.

“You can talk.” He states, fishing through the pile he brought out. 

“What are y-you doing ?” Peter’s voice his rougher than usual, hoarse, dry. He swallows. “What are you doing with those, Roman?” 

“You have an imagination, Rumancek,” Roman stretches a band between two fingers. “Use it.”

Peter stills, his muscles seizing for a moment as he watches Roman place the first band onto his cock. It burns, just tight enough to be painful. Peter lets out a strangled moan. 

“You even sound like a fucking whore.” Roman smiles.

“F-fuck you.” Peter spits.

Roman picks up the gun and shoots Peter once, at point blank to his bare cock. Peter howls.

Putting the gun down, Roman sighs, going back to fishing in the pile of rubber bands. Peter pants, his chest heaving, breath stuttering.

“Don’t talk back to me, mutt.” Roman says, placing another band around his cock. Peter groans. “Say sorry.”

 

Peter says nothing.

 

“Say sorry,” Roman presses the gun to Peter’s cock. “ _Cunt_.”

“S-sorry.” Peter squeezes his eyes shut.

“Good.” Roman looks down at Peter’s cock, practically purple. His mind stirs with ideas. “Alright.” He claps his hands together. “Get up.”


	2. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [griffin mcelroy voice] take me down to the ding-dong city  
> anyway i finished hemlock grove season three and i hate roman and expectt a fic about that !!  
> anyway heres the conclusion to thiss  
> anddd roman is SO the kind of guy to have a daddy kink, the bland white he is

Peter shifts for a moment, tipping his head back.

“Come on, mutt,” Roman grabs Peter at the back of his neck, like his mother would when he was misbehaving as a child. “Get up.”

Peter makes a noise, akin to a groan, and sits up, slowly. Roman guides him, without finesse or care, more of a shove as he pulls Peter up. They make eye contact for a moment, and Roman feels the primal urge rise, bubbling just underneath his skin. He takes a deep breath as he pushes Peter onto the bed.

“Wait here.” He strides out of the room again, rushing to his laundry. He fishes through the cupboards, pulling out a length of rope and some large scissors. Perfect.

 

Roman returns to his room as quick as he left, showing off the rope as he enters. The moment Peter sees it he stutters, vocally and physically.

“R-Roman-” he shuffles back from his position on the bed, and Roman moves like lightening, on top of him instantly.

“Sh-hh.” Roman’s cupping his face, drawing his fingers down Peter’s neck. Peter stills.

Roman takes his time, measuring out the right amount of rope for reach appendage, cutting it with accuracy. Every now and again he looks back at Peter, makes eye contact; it makes Peter’s blood bubble with something akin to lust.

 Tugging one of his wrists up, Roman shifts, beginning to tie the rope around Peter’s wrists. Roman struggles for a moment before stopping and moving, swinging his leg over Peter’s hips, straddling him. He returns to the rope, and Peter absently shifts his hips up. Roman doesn’t look down.

“Remember when we used to do this?” There’s still no tone is Roman’s voice, untelling of whether he thinks badly of the memory or not. “Not exactly this, but you know.” He moves onto tying the rope to the bedpost. It tugs Peter’s arm up a little, and he moves his head to look at it.

“If I ask you what you’re doing,” Peter’s voice doesn’t sound right; it’s too strained. “Are you gonna actually tell me?” he watches as Roman ties his other hand. Roman laughs. It’s deep, filled with hate. It’s the laugh of a dirty old man, not his. “I guess that’s my answer.”

Stopping his ministrations, Roman picks up the scissors. Peter pauses.

“I- was that talking back?” He asks, rushed, watching Roman open and close the scissors. “If so-”

“Don’t.” Roman stops him. “What’s done is done, Peter.” He takes the scissors, holds it by the blade, slicing slow a sure across Peter’s cheek. Peter hisses in pain. “Just try to learn from your mistakes.” He puts the scissors back and returns to tying up Peter’s legs, not bothering to take his shoes off. He leaves more room, more give at his legs. Not that Peter notices.

 Roman looks back up, from Peter’s right foot, meeting Peter’s eyes. He’s considering something, his eyes steady. Peter shifts. Roman takes a breath in; steady, through his nose.

 Slowly, Roman’s moving up, on his hands and knees. His movements are fluid, calculated, sly, like a puma. He moves up and up, until his and Peter’s faces are inches apart. He breathes, for one slow moment, into Peter’s face, and then he’s turning, shifting slightly. Peter tries his hardest to look at his cheek, see what Roman is doing. And then there’s something, large, wet and - _oh._

Roman’s licks Peter’s cheek two or three times, at least. He rolls his tongue, collecting the blood with each lap.

“I ought to kill you,” Roman whispers, his hot breath blanketing the shell of Peter’s ear. “Drain you dry right fucking here.” and Peter’s bristling because something’s happened, suddenly Roman’s aware of what he is, what he’s supposed to do, and it fills Peter with fear. “That would be too easy.” He chimes, his fingers playing with Peter’s neck. “How about we do something else?”

Peter can’t help it. He’s shaking, sweating again, his mind brimming with what Roman has in mind. Instead of indulging Peter and telling him, Roman decides to power forward.

He starts by tearing Peter’s shirt apart, straight down the middle. Peter practically yelps, not expecting it. Roman grins, running his hands down Peter’s chest.

“Not much hair for a wolf, huh?” Roman almost jokes, and Peter’s about to answer, before he remembers the situation, remembers the scissors. Roman has them in his hands again, and he looks at them, before looking at Peter. “I could go and get a knife,” He draws the blade across Peter’s clavicle. “But that’d take too much time. And I’m hungry now.” He continues, making deeper cuts each time, watching the blood creep from the cuts drip down the curves of Peter’s body.

 

In an instant Roman is ducking forward, licking and sucking at the cuts. Peter groans; in pain more than pleasure. The cuts sting, and Roman agitating them only serves to the burn. Not to mention the rubber bands that are still around his dick, a constant burning pain, like a slow friction burn, building and building. Peter can hardly think straight, every time he rolls his head his brain seems to slosh like a tossed wine glass, his vision blurring lightly.

It doesn’t take him long, however, to see Roman’s arm, shifting slowly, to get the right vantage, to see Roman palming himself through his jeans.

Peter opens his mouth, a singular syllable escaping his mouth before he clamps it shut. If he points that out, if he speaks back, he’s sure he’s losing a finger, or worse. That syllable is enough for Roman to tilt his head up and _fuck_ if he doesn’t look the picture; straddling Peter, blood on his lips, tent in his pants.

 

“What is it, Rumancek?” Roman inquires. “Come on, spit it out.”

Peter’s mind chugs as he tries to come up with a response, think of something Roman would want to hear.

“I…”

“You may think I have all the time in the World, Peter, but I don’t.” Roman ducks his head to lick at Peter’s cuts, to suckle on them some more.

“Da-” Peter cuts himself off with a groan, and Roman stops. He waits, frown on his brow. When Peter doesn’t continue, he tugs Peter’s hair.

“Is that what you were going to say?” Roman grins, and Peter’s face flushes. Fuck. “How much of a slut are you Peter? Look at you -- spread out, like putty in my hands, and you’re going to call me _daddy_?” He chuffs, and Peter clams up under his gaze.

 

“Say it,” Roman continues, his hand moving down to play with Peter’s nipple -- soft at first, but quickly too rough. “Say it and I’ll take a band off of your dick.” And Peter’s ears almost ring. He doesn’t eye Roman weirdly, doesn’t make a face, doesn’t hesitate. He rolls his hips, licks his lips and moans, breathy;

“Fuck me, daddy.” It’s almost comical, the amount of breath he puts into the phrase. It makes him cringe, makes his face heat up, burn with shame. But sure enough, Roman’s moving his hand down further, pulling the band off Peter’s cock.

And Peter sighs with relief, the pressure decreased. Roman watches his dick for a moment, before moving back to palming himself. Peter watches, face still red, not sure enough to look at Roman’s face, lest he meet his eyes.

“Yeah,” Roman groans, ducking his head for a moment, the tip of his tongue darting out to lap up more of the blood. “Fuck, I can’t remember the last time I fucked your tight pussy.” Roman’s grinding hopelessly into his own hand, and Peter almost has it in his right mind to correct him.

They had never _actually_ fucked. Not dick-in-ass-style fucked, anyway. Sure, Peter had sucked Roman off a few times, given him a quick handjob as they shared a joint; high off their asses and horny as hell. Roman had never really talked about it, and Peter had always suspected that Roman thought being gay -- or bisexual, if Roman was even aware of that -- was stripping his masculinity, stripping his power. That being anything other than straight would ruin his reputation. He remembered how Roman would soak up the stares he got from hangung with the weird kid, hanging with the werewolf, hiw he loved it. But the moment they would rush away to share a cigarette, if someone saw them, he'd break from Peter immediately, push away, lean against the wall or look in the opposite direction. He never wanted to be mistaken for doing something gay with the gypsy.

 

Cold, wet fingers prod, massage lightly at Peter’s entrance and he looks down, unaware that he’s even had his pants removed. They're bunched, midway down his calves. Roman easily works finger in.

“Shit-” Peter groans, his eyes slipping shut.

Roman continues working his fingers in, making sure he can get a good stretch. He stays silent the entire time, only pausing to watch Peter’s face as he writhes. After an amount of time -- Peter isn’t sure how long, it’s felt like an eternity -- Roman pulls his fingers out, wiping them on his pants.

“Okay.” He says, looking at Peter, a sort of unbridled hunger in his eyes. Peter feels his temples prick with sweat.

Roman makes quick work of his pants, wasting no time in getting his cock out. Peter’s mouth practically waters at the sight of it, and he watches as Roman strokes himself, coating his dick in his own slick.

 

He takes no time in sinking into Peter, either. It’s done in one quick shove, Roman groaning, giving Peter no time to adjust to his size before starting painfully quick thrusts.

“Fuck, you’re tight.” Is the first thing Roman says. He moves forward, his hands planting on either side of Peter’s head. And that’s when Peter catches sight of them; the scars. Those had not been there the whole time Peter had known him, that was for sure. So they were new. Peter's throat clogs with guilt.

“You fucking left me.” Roman starts, his thrusts becoming more and more forceful, rocking Peter, punching moans out of him. “You left me alone with my mother and you left me alone without Letha and you left me alone with her fucking kid.” His voice fills with poison, more and more, and he groans, low and long. Peter’s mind stills for a moment, catching on a single word -- kid -- before he’s strung back by his arousal.

“And you’re coming back to me.” Roman’s thrusts are becoming erratic now. "Asking for money. Asking for my help.” He reaches forward, planting his hands around Peter’s throat. And he’s clenching, and suddenly Peter can’t breathe. “Where were you when I needed you, huh? Where were you when I slit my own fucking wrists?”

 

Peter’s vision clouds and he’s gasping,writhing, his hands pulling against the restraints as Roman chokes him out. He feels Roman stop, his hips stuttering, hears him groan, like he’s been stabbed, and slowly, like turning off a faucet, Peter loses consciousness.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment for im gay  
> kudos to beat me over the head for even typing the word daddy

**Author's Note:**

> comment if you like  
> comment for chapter two


End file.
